Despite the early hour, the air is already thick and cloying, the very heat heavy as stone, and he wipes the back of a hand carelessly across his forehead, glaring at the twin suns already climbing into the sky. "Don't know why you chose here, of all places," Shee says grimly, hair already collapsing in sweat-damp tangles, looking up at him through eyes half-closed against the swirling sand. "Of all the planets in the Outer Rim, all the places where it's possible to disappear into the bustle, why Tatooine?"

Glancing out across the port, filled with pilots on stops, the dirty side of society lurking on every corner, for a second he can almost see the familiar face among it all, gently smiling, waiting for him. But then he turns away, and there's nothing there but empty space. A vacuum, where those few days of happiness linger, a shadow of sadness in what should have been a fresh start. "Reminds me of someone," he finally answers, and she smiles at him. "Come on, once we get these unloaded we can head home."

Together, with much grunting and panting and spitting of Huttese curses under their breath, they succeed in emptying the freighter of boxes, storing them all in the freezer and leaving it for the day staff. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Shee curls her fingers into the hem of her shirt and glances up at him, throat working before she finally says, "Shall we go get some breakfast? It's just...Cam, I know you live a long way from the port. Let me treat you, just this once."

If only it could be a matter of her wanting to treat him, to be a good friend. It's flattering that she's noticed how far he'll have to go to get back to that tiny hut, spending his meagre earnings on bland food that sends his mind spinning back to cold, clinical corridors and gritted orders and constant, cold, clenching fear. It's, honestly, a little shocking that she's interested in him, that her eyes are glinting with the ghost of hope. But he came to this planet, in that cramped ship with the pilots arguing in languages he couldn't understand, in order to disappear. Not for love, or money, or fame. For that most precious gift in the war they're living in - anonymity. "Sorry, Shee, I'm exhausted," he says gently, gut clenching as her face falls, just a little. "Some other time, I promise. On your birthday, we'll go out and eat until we fall asleep at the table."

"Okay," she says, but her eyes are sad and she won't meet his eyes. "Well, thanks for making the night shift not mind-numbingly boring. Have a good day." And she walks away, pulling her hood over her face to protect her skin from sharp sand and blasting heat, and he can only turn away and head towards his speeder. After all the journeys he's taken on it, the paint is chipped, peeling, faded, but it's still obviously red. As he climbs aboard, he can't help a smile, remembering the girl who fought her own battles and could fly as easily as walking, a natural at those complicated controls. Donning his goggles and twisting the accelerator, he crouches low over the controls and feels the hum of the engine as the craft moves swiftly over the sand, away from the port and into the wastelands.

When he first arrived on Tatooine, he was given everything he would need to create a new life here, under a new name - an allowance for a house and a place to find a job. While at first he rebelled against the idea of working in the cantina, it soon became brilliantly obvious that no one pays attention to the evening bartenders. No one thinks about how they have to clean up after all the patrons are gone. No one realises that they don't leave the bar until morning, sleeping through the heat and rising with the moon. He's just a faceless entity, providing drinks and small talk. They wouldn't be able to pick his face out of a line-up.

As he reaches his home, the heat is oppressive, and he stumbles gratefully into the cool darkness, taking a long drink of water and carefully climbing into the hammock. All those moons ago, when he first arrived here, the silence scared him - after years growing up with the First Order, years surrounded by other people and hearing the screams of the fighters rushing around, then those few dizzily exhilarating days travelling with Rey, he was used to noise. Couldn't sleep without it. But now, it welcomes him in like an old friend, the darkness wrapping around him like the arms of a lover he's never had, the quiet singing him to sleep.

Life on Tatooine is simple - not easy, of course. Not in the stifling heat, surrounded for miles on every side by arid desert, with rarely a breath of cool wind. Here, he's not a traitor, or an accidental hero, or a soldier. He can pretend he wasn't snatched from blue skies and pearly clouds and warm arms, trained to march and kill and obey, and finally leaving that behind on a whim. He's just a man. A worker. A place like this, with its few ports, has its benefits. Life is so treacherous, on a planet plagued with sandstorms and brimming with unsavoury types, that everyone takes care of only themselves. Compassion is a quality rarely seen in the Outer Rim - it's remarkably easy to simply disappear. Fade like a shadow and become just another lowered head in a crowd.

But the nightmares still haunt him. He can still see the bodies, in their armour that did nothing against blaster fire, hear the screams of the villages he was ordered to murder in cold blood, the roar of the fighters bearing down on them. On the worst nights, the nights when the guilt is hot and gnawing, he dreams about those people he met in the war that visitors to the cantina whisper is still raging. He dreams about them dying, fading into the legends of war heroes who gave their lives to the cause. More than once, he's found himself waking abruptly on the floor after thrashing out of his hammock, breaking out in a cold sweat, heart pounding and breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Three years have blown past like sand rolling across the wastelands, he thinks to himself, staring at the ceiling of the hut and breathing in the quiet. Does he regret leaving that day? He looked back as the craft rose into the sky, but the ground was green and the air rich and he was certain that Han and Rey would get BB-8 to the Resistance. Curled in between bags and cargo, he composed some unlikely fantasy to stave off the guilt, one in which Rey became a co-pilot with Han, and the Resistance were able to destroy the First Order and win the war, and the galaxy was once again restored to peace and harmony. After all, what importance could a former Stormtrooper have in the war effort?

All too soon, seemingly before he has even slipped away to dreams, he's awake again, struggling groggily through changing into uniform and doing everything he can to look a little more alert, pinning on a smile and spurring his speeder on, ever a little faster, back to the port and to the night shift. The cantina hums with life - they come out at night here, when the heat has calmed and the work is over. He waves to his regulars - the group of moisture farmers who raise their glasses in reply, pod racers talking loudly of their latest accidents and exploits, workers from the port who funnel the spacecraft in and out. One young woman, eyes bright with drink and gestures a little too wild, knocks a glass over, and he graciously clears it away before anyone can notice, brushing off her frantic apologies and gently keeping her fingers away from the sharp edges. She flirts a little, brushing her fingers against his wrist for a second too long as she pushes a tip into his hand, and he just smiles and talks to her until a friend gets her attention and she turns away.

"Always the charmer," Shee says as he ducks behind the counter, standing there wiping down glasses and looking at him with an expression he wishes he could read. "Now come on, hotshot, take over the cleaning for a while and let me take last food orders."

"Yes ma'am," he replies, and her smile lets him know that she's not angry with him. Not to the point of denying all existence of their friendship, carefully cultivated and nurtured over the years, since the first day he walked into the cantina, unsure and unsteady, and she swooped on him like some merciful angel, taking him under her wing and helping him become the experienced cantina worker he is today. In some ways, she reminds him of Rey, his first true friend - she's fearless and strong and independent, surviving on such a harsh planet. But, in essence, she's different - softer and sweeter, not so hard and sharp at the edges. She hasn't fought the way Rey did - nor the way he has. Not that she'll ever know that.

The sky is dark, the lighting low and the patrons approaching the bar are increasingly unsteady, squaring their elbows on the nearest flat surface to stay upright and ordering in that sharp, overly loud tone that shows the level of their inebriation. In the corner, the band are playing smooth, slow music that could easily soothe a tired night-shift worker to sleep, and he's fighting not to let his eyelids droop, to remain charming for each and every customer attempting to tell him their life story with unfocused eyes and dramatic hand gestures.

"You know the Empire, right, the Empire?" someone says to him, and he nods and smiles and swallows a laugh as he prepares another drink. "So when the Rebellion wiped them out completely it was amazing and they were heroes! I've always admired Leia Organa, because she was just such a good general and leader and everything, and her brother was a war hero and the first of a new generation of Jedi, and she married another war hero who was the best pilot in the galaxy!" And their face falls and they whisper, "But everyone says they're just stories. Just legends people tell us. Kind of anti-First Order propaganda, if you know what I mean. Trying to tell us we can fight."

"Let me tell you a secret," he says, and they lean in close, eyes wide. "Those legends - they're not just stories. The Force isn't just some religion from the old days. It's real, and those people are real. Just because the First Order doesn't want us to think an evil dictator and a corrupt regime can't be stopped doesn't mean it's true."

They stare at him for a long moment, and then grin and reach across the bar to tap his nose. "I like you," they say, and pick up their drink, pay and weave away across the cantina, swaying gently in time to the music. Smiling after them, he turns to the box of glasses retrieved from various corners of the room and starts to wipe them clean, when the relative peace of late night is shattered by the distinct sound of people shouting just outside the door.

"I hate drunks sometimes," Shee says, rolling her eyes expressively and wiping her hands on her apron. A moment later, security opens the door and she waves cheerfully, and he has to hide a smile. "Do you think this happens to people working the day shift? Do you think people get this drunk?"

"When it comes to day shifts, a lot of the customers are pilots who are on crazy times from all the travelling," he points out fairly. "I'm sure it's just as bad." And then the whole bar starts, and scared quiet reigns when the familiar sound of blaster fire filters through the entrance. Meeting Shee's eyes, heart in his mouth when he sees the sudden raw fear there, he gulps and says, "I have a bad feeling about this."

"It's just someone getting belligerent when they're asked to leave, Cam, it happens all the time," Shee says, but her eyes and the tight grip of her fingers around a glass betray her fear. "I'll just go glance outside and see what's going on."

She walks away, and he's trapped behind the bar, heart pounding and breath becoming ragged. The bar is silent - even the band are quiet, instruments in their hands, waiting. Just the reactions tell him this isn't a regular occurrence, even with Shee trying to act natural about it. As he looks down at the glass in his hand, seeing his own scared face reflected back in the newly-cleaned surface, he hears a familiar noise overhead. It's faint, but it chills him to the bone - a mechanical scream that he heard every day of his life before deciding to leave all of that behind. The kind of sound that he hoped to run from forever. The sound of an evil he can't escape, even in the Outer Rim.

Blaster fire. Again. And he only looks up in time to see Shee falling back into the cantina, and it takes a moment for him to realise the screaming is him, and he vaults over the bar and runs to her side. It's too late, the wound in her chest is still curling with smoke and her eyelids are fluttering as her life fades, but he still takes her hand and looks down at her. He doesn't cry. His heart breaks, but his face is set in stone. That's was he was taught. "Does it hurt?" he asks her, and she meets his eyes, gaze unfocused and corners of her mouth twitching with a smile.

"Too quick," she says softly, and squeezes his fingers in hers. "Don't go outside. They...it's the First Order. They killed the security. They'll kill everyone." Just for a moment, there's pain creasing her almost serene face, agony in her eyes. "Why are they here?"

"I'm so sorry," he says, and she'll never know how much he's apologising for. It's not just because she's dying, when she's young and bright and free and could've lived to do so much, be so much more than the night-shift cantina worker she's dying as. It's because it was him. He left the Order, and then he left the fight against them. He let his fear rule him, and the war is still raging and now they're in the Outer Rim and more and more people are going to be added to that body count, it'll just keep going up until the Order has wiped out every last trace of resistance in the galaxy.

Her gaze is still fixed on his as her eyes slip closed, and the sigh that leaves her has tears springing hotly to his eyes, stinging as he fights them back. He's not a soldier, not any more, but a simple glance around the room shows him how terrified they are. They don't know this - this is not their war. He has to protect them. With a thought for the heroes he spent those scant few days beside, he adjusts his jacket and stands, looking around the room of ashen faces. "How many of you have weapons?" he asks, but they simply stare. "I'm serious. There are Stormtroopers out there, and their orders will be to kill. They won't show any mercy. If you have a weapon, you damn well better know how to use it. So who has one?"

A few raise their hands, others reaching into holsters for blasters and some producing knives. He thinks, briefly, that it's hopeless, but one look at Shee's still body hardens his resolve, and he turns to the crowd. "Those who really know how to use those blasters, come outside with me. Those who aren't ready for the fight, I want you to go into the storeroom. Those with knives, guard them. We are not letting the First Order take us with a fight."

"But you don't have a weapon!" one voice calls out, and he feels the darkness inside as he turns to look at them. It's a blackness in his heart, inside of everyone, fuelled by anger and grief.

"They just killed my friend," he says, and his voice sounds almost foreign to his own ears. Dangerous. "I'll get one." And it must be that voice that makes them all listen, because the few relatively stable people with blasters in their hands surround him in a nervous ring, while the rest disappear into the back of the cantina, into hiding. "When the door opens, they'll attack," he says to his small band of fighters, looking at those scared eyes and shaky hands. "You have to be ready."

The woman who broke a glass with an errant gesture steps forward, her eyes steely and her knuckles white wrapped around her blaster. "Open the door," she says sharply, and he obeys her, seeing the bravery in her expression and stance. She shoots once, and he hears the sound of the blast finding its target square and true, and the thump of a fallen body.

"Nice shot," he says, and she meets his eyes, shifting her hair out of her eyes. She vanishes outside, just for a moment, and then hands the weapon from the fallen Stormtrooper into his hand.

"Apparently we both have mysterious pasts," she says. "No cantina worker could lead people in this situation." He nods, acknowledging her offering of even that titbit of information, and takes the blaster, readying himself for the fight with a deep breath.

It's just the way he remembers, the way he wishes he could forget. The second they push out of the cantina and into the centre of the storm, it's just the sounds of blaster fire echoing in the confusion, a press of bodies, the familiarity of those masks pressing in on him and threatening to end in only terror. This is a battle for their lives, the rawest kind there is, and, at the back of his mind, he wonders why the Order are here at all. What are they looking for? It can't be him - he vanished from the raiders the day he got onto the ship bound for the Outer Rim, and he wasn't important. Are they here just to tighten their grip on the galaxy, to weave their net around even the Outer Rim and terrify all into submission?

Someone shouts suddenly, a hand emerging from the forest of fighting to point upwards, and a tiny ship swoops overhead. Stormtroopers immediately turn their eyes to the skies, and start firing at it. "It's the Resistance!" someone shouts, their voice full of hope, and Finn can only watch in horror as a blast finds its target and fire springs from the engine of the ship, and it spins out of control. There's a blur of movement, and the ship spirals into the ground in an explosion of roaring flames.

A hum fills the air - something familiar. He hears it above the blaster fire and the shouting and the tramp of feet and the thump of bodies hitting the sand. It's electric, energising the air around them, and he looks around for the source. Other people begin to fall quiet, and then there's a cut-off scream from a Stormtrooper, and someone screams, "It's the Jedi! They've returned!"

The Jedi? It can't be - they were gone, Han said as much. Luke Skywalker was the only Jedi who embraced the light, and he was hiding. But if they're here...that must mean that BB-8 made it to the Resistance. They got him to them and they found the map and they found Luke Skywalker. And that means, somehow, everything will be alright. They've been fighting, and they've had a powerful Jedi on their side, and it doesn't matter that he left. Of course it doesn't. He would've slowed them down, maybe the Resistance would've got him back. They were better off with him leaving. Running away.

The Jedi keeps their robe on, the hood up despite the fierce battle they just fought. The bodies of the Stormtroopers lie around them, and they turn to the fighters from the cantina, face hidden beneath the brown material. "Treat your wounded and tend to your fallen. These attacks have been happening all over the Outer Rim. The Resistance will be alerted of what happened here today."

People gape at them, this Jedi Knight, protector of the galaxy and enemy of the First Order. "You're from the Resistance? All the way out here?"

A small smile is visible beneath the hood. "I'm from the Outer Rim too. We received intelligence a few days ago that a planned attack was headed to this planet. The First Order are tightening their grip on the Outer Rim, preparing, we believe, for a far larger attack on the Resistance. Now, does this group have a leader? Anyone who could plan an opposition to such a random attack is someone my general would be interested in."

Someone points to him, and he drops the blaster in his hand, giving the Jedi a weak smile. They move towards him, that hood hiding their expression, and suddenly there's a stab of electrical noise and the tip of a lightsaber glowing at his throat, and he's falling backwards, terrified. "No, no, I'm not a Stormtrooper, I was just using their weapon. What's wrong with you?"

"You ran away." And the hood comes down to reveal a face he's only seen in his dreams and memories for three years. She looks the same as ever, with those flashing eyes and her hair tied back neatly, but she's wearing all white under her robe, and the lightsaber shrinks back into its silver holster, for the hook at her hip. "What the hell are you doing here, Finn?"

There's so much he should say. He should explain everything, all the reasons behind him leaving, the life he's had here, in the desert that reminds him every day of what he left behind. But his mind is blank, filled with only one word.

"Rey."